


Get Me to the Church On Time

by Riverdancekat09



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, now with more pine!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2020-05-16 05:57:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19312033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riverdancekat09/pseuds/Riverdancekat09
Summary: It's a long and rambling road to Epiphany...





	1. Over the Garden Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a post floating around, on the premise that The Book Incident of 1941 is the first time Aziraphale realized his pining might be mutual.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It starts as a whisper--a feeling like a breeze puffed through his feathers. It starts with a smile, a thread of kinship as an angel and a demon worry together about the Right Thing…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work begged for expansion, asked pretty please and everything. Enjoy!

**_4004 BC_ **

 The eastern sky was turning pink and grey as dawn began to creep back into the world. It had just about gotten the hang of it, by now. Aziraphale’s wings were still damp. Crawley had gone, slipping off the edge of the Garden’s high wall with a nod of thanks once the rain had stopped. The angel shook droplets of water from his feathers and stared thoughtfully at the patterns as they scattered. 

It felt odd, to be absolved by one of the Fallen. But Aziraphale felt the glow of it, nonetheless. Of reassurance, of-- _kindness_. 

But that couldn’t be right, could it? Demons were--well, _demons._ They couldn’t be capable of such a thing. Tempters, liars, and--

_Be funny if we both got it wrong, eh--?_

It still wasn’t funny, he decided firmly. He was an angel--a Principality, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. _Questions_ weren’t in his lot. At least, they weren’t _meant_ to be. 

He spread his wings and glided over the sands that surrounded Eden. TThe lion’s body lay where it had fallen, its life cut short by the same blade he’d given as a gift to the first humans. He could still feel the heat of it in the air, the swing, the fear, the--the _taste_ of something new. Something he wasn’t altogether sure was--

\-- _if I did the Good thing and you did the Bad one?_

\--well, _good_. 

Aziraphale hopped back into the air and landed with a thought at the human-sized hole in the wall. He slotted stones into place, one stacked atop another, until the hole was closed. He could have miracled it closed, of course, but he didn’t want to attract any unwanted attention from--

_AZIRAPHALE. GUARDIAN OF THE EASTERN GATE. WHERE IS THE FLAMING SWORD I GAVE YOU?_

He froze, his back against the newly-repaired wall and a nervous smile plastered across his face. “Flaming sword--hot, sharp, cutty thing?” he said vaguely. “Must’ve put it down here...somewhere…?” 

The Almighty spotlight lingered for a moment, bright with heat and the curiosity of the omniscient, and winked out. 

“Forget my own head next,” Aziraphale chuckled, casting another wobbly smile skyward. 

Silence lay over the sands beyond the Garden. The angel wrung his hands, his head abuzz with-- _questions_. 

Which, to his way of thinking--not that he _Thought_ , per se, but the familiar paths of his Principal felt good under his feet as he came to a decision--to his way of thinking, settled things. He’d have to keep an eye on the sword. And on the humans. 

_\--I don’t think you CAN do the wrong thing_. 

And on a demon.

 

 


	2. My point is.... dolphins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a sussuration of delight, quickly shushed like a giggle in a temple. It’s a wriggle of discomfort as a demon asks the very questions he’s been trying desperately not to think about.

_**3004 BC** _

 

The rains in Mesopotamia were neither gentle nor tentative. Aziraphale stood on the deck of the Ark on the fortieth night, preferring the sullen chill of the dying storm to sitting in the hold with two of every bird and beast man had thought to name. 

_Not the kids--you can’t kill kids--_

He scrubbed the lingering rain from his face, wishing he could wipe away the memory of Crawley’s incredulous horror just as easily. He hadn’t liked the thought any better than the demon had, he argued for the hundredth time since the rain began. But God’s plan was--well, it was _the_ Plan, wasn’t it? 

His linen robe clung to him, cold and clammy as the ungainly ship pitched across the waters. His stomach--or the nearest approximation to one he’d been given--rolled with it. He felt sick, as sick as the humans cowering below the deck with the animals. Fear and faith in equal measure tinged the air blue-black, limned in the white heat of the lightning as--

Aziraphale sniffed--and caught the faintest whiff of _Hell_ from somewhere deep within the floating wooden prison. A snap of his fingers dried his robes as he rushed down the ladder into the hold. It was harder to detect in the enclosed space, what with the mess, but it was definitely there.  

_\--kind of thing you’d expect my lot to do--_

Well. _His_ lot were demons, weren’t they. He wouldn’t be surprised if he were down in the bilges this very moment, drilling holes through the wood or--or spoiling the food stores--

Except--he _would_ be surprised, Aziraphale realized. He’d be surprised if the demon who’d balked at the notion of the Almighty drowning _everyone else_ was ruining the food or sinking the boat or--

 _“Ssssstop right there._ ”

Aziraphale turned a corner, and was immediately plunged into a darkness that reeked of sulphur and burnt feathers. He squared his shoulders, clucking his tongue as some of his heavenly radiance spilled outward. The shadows retreated, but not before he saw a pair of slitted yellow-gold eyes glaring around a barrel at him. Eyes that were quickly joined by others in sets of two. Each set of eyes was wide, and small, and fearful--oh, _no--_

Crawley twisted out from his hiding place with another hiss of warning. He’d spread his wings wide, and what his wings wouldn’t cover he masked with the smell of brimstone. He stared at the angel, scales and feathers coiled protectively around a few _dozen_ children. Crusts of bread littered the cramped space, too hard for small teeth to manage without breaking. The barrels of fresh water looked alarmingly empty. And there was a sourness to the air that spoke of small bodies being violently ill in round-the-clock shifts. 

_You can’t kill kids._

Angel and demon stared at each other across the cramped hold. Neither moved for a long time, until one of the younger children began to throw up again. Crawley’s expression twisted and for a brief moment, he-- _Felt_ like any of the humans on board. Filled with fear, and faith. 

Aziraphale snapped his fingers. 

The smell of fresh bread suddenly filled the hold. Laid atop each barrel was a basket of bread, a small jar of honey, and a jug of milk. 

“You dastardly serpent, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Aziraphale scolded him. “Keeping these poor children on a diet of bread alone? For shame! They’ll end up with scurvy by the time we get anywhere, or--or--” 

“Lice?” Crawley suggested. The angry light in his slitted eyes faded into a more general glow, and a smile reluctantly curled the corner of his mouth. 

Aziraphale’s heart--or the nearest thing to it he’d been given--shuddered with something he didn’t think humans had a name for yet. He bade it keep still. Another basket appeared, this one filled with wine rather than milk. He held it out to the demon, affecting an air of great disdain. “If you will insist on thwarting the Great Plan,” he sniffed primly, “you might do me the courtesy of putting some real effort into it. I hardly had to work at it at all to sniff out your wily--er--”

“Wilesssss?” the demon offered helpfully. He took the basket, offering one of the bottles inside as the children around him settled in for a much needed rest. As soon as the last one fell into slumber, Crawley’s expression turned more serious. “Any idea how much longer we’re stuck here?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer, and closed it. Opened it again to tell the demon off for asking, to insist he would never give away _intelligence_ to the Enemy, how _dare_ he imply such a thing? How dare he _ask_?

How dare he hide a few dozen children underneath the stench of hell? How dare he _care_?

And how could the angel now dare to do anything _less_?

He shook his wings out, making certain the eyes were closed on the side that faced the children. The others, he turned toward Heaven, keeping watch for any unwanted attention. He concentrated on his shape--on the _lack_ of shape, for true radiance was infinite and ineffable just as God Herself was--

“That bloody _hurtsssss,_ ” Crawley complained, as the angel’s essence grew more and more dense to fit into the shape he’d chosen. “Kids’ve only just fallen asleep and you’re glowing like a damned _sun_ \--”

He stopped, blinking once in surprise as he found himself bickering with a white dove rather than the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. “Won’t be long now,” Aziraphale promised. “Try to get some rest, dear boy.”

It took decades to forget the taste of olive branch. Of the weight of salt in his feathers. 

The twist of fear and faith in a demon’s face as ember-gold eyes followed his journey across an endless sea.


	3. In the Naked Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a sigh, a sadness. A gnawing, gaping worry in the back of his throat as a demon watches with him. 
> 
> It’s a policy decision.

**_33 AD_ **

Aziraphale remembered the War in Heaven the way you remember nightmares you had as a child. Broken images--some fuzzy, others distinct, and all tinged with vivid dread, as pungent in the mind as the stench of rotting meat.

_\--Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you--_

He remembered heads clustered together in the spaces between the soaring alabaster columns. Susurrous conspiracies he’d never caught the full thread of. The humid tension sitting in the air as the heavens spanned ever wider, ever farther and then--

And then the ranks of the angelic choirs thinned. Gaps opened up, and those who were left, who were _loyal_ \--they shifted to close them. But none stood as close together as they had Before. The warmth bled from the alabaster, became cool, clean marble instead.

_Your lot put him on there--_

He remembered the way Love changed. Not the Love of the Almighty, he hastened to assure his memories. That was the same-- _surely_ it was the same? No--the Love among Her angels, that was different. It grew, for one thing. Sometimes the angels’ Love felt so vast it made him feel vaguely agoraphobic to be standing in the middle of it. Yes, Love grew larger--but thinner too. Like the air atop a mountain summit. Clean and pure--but never enough of it. 

_Your lot--_

Perhaps that was the kind of Love they needed, he reflected. How else would anyone be able to endure the sight of the young man, flayed raw and nailed to a wooden cross? He did not care to dwell on a Love that could love warm _and_ bear to watch-- _this_.

 _Smirk_ . He kept circling back to that word in his head. An angel would _never_ smirk, not as such suffering. Was that what Hell thought of Heaven? he yearned to ask. Did they really think angels sat about all day in their marble citadel, _smirking_? 

Did the mountain-thin Love of Heaven have room in it for a  _ smirk _ ?

Was that what  _ this  _ demon thought of  _ him? _

_ Oh, I’ve changed it. _

_ Changed what? _

_ My name-- _

The demon wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t even smiling. He was watching this-- _ pageant _ with the same intensity and cold sorrow he’d lifted to the sky after the Flood, hunting for the rainbow God had promised. That  _ Aziraphale  _ had promised.  _ How kind,  _ he’d drawled, and then sneered as the colors arched across the sky and the corpses had started to finally rise to the surface. 

Crowley was speaking. Aziraphale heard himself answer, though if you held a knife to his throat he could not have told you what he’d actually said. Not that holding a knife to the throat of a Principality would offer you much opportunity for conversation. 

_ Smirk.  _ **_Really._ ** He’d come to bear witness. That was his assignment. Walk among them, the Almighty had said. Or rather, Metatron said the Almighty had said. Be our eyes and our hands against the machinations of Hell. Or something. 

He’d only come so the poor boy wouldn’t be alone, he thought wretchedly. Someone from his own side ought to. 

_ Best not to speculate,  _ he’d said once. 

_ You can’t judge the Almighty,  _ he’d said, a bit later. 

And today, with a sunset painting the clear sky in mourning purple, he’d said,  _ I’m not consulted on Policy decisions. _

What a difference  _ Time  _ made. A handful of years--depending on the size of the hands--and there was room for things like  _ disapproval _ . Like-- _ Doubt.  _

They’d said  _ sorry  _ when they’d assigned him to Earth, assigned him a body.  _ Sorry to do this to you.  _ He hadn’t wondered about it then--he couldn’t have. He wondered now. Wondered if  _ Doubt  _ came standard with this body he’d been wearing for the last four thousand years. If after so long  _ human things  _ were bound to get stuck in his angelic workings. If he was bound to hurt, to  _ burn-- _

_ So what is it now--? _

“What was it he said that got everyone so upset?” the demon asked. His mouth twisted with mingled fury and grief as the uniformed soldiers hoisted the cross up, and up, until it stood on its own. 

Aziraphale half-turned without taking his eyes away from the Planned ordeal unfolding before him. He would not look away now, not with the lad’s own mother standing not ten feet distant-- 

“‘Be kind to each other,’” he answered sadly. 

“Oh yeah,” he deadpanned. “That’ll do it.”

_ Crowley. _


	4. Not Quite a Diamond in the Rough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a quiet murmur, a familiar voice in an unfamiliar place. It’s a casual slip of the tongue, an invitation to share a pleasure he tells himself is innocent. It’s his hand, reaching out though he keeps it neatly folded against his chest. And it’s a fleeting kind of excitement, when a demon’s hand stretches out in acceptance.

**41 AD**

It took Aziraphale eight years to arrive in Rome. 

Even by the standards of the day, a human could quite correctly call that  _ dragging one’s feet _ , if it were done on purpose. If not, then a human could, again quite correctly, complain to any number of ships’ captains, caravan leaders, and on one memorable occasion a very irate camel that eight years to get from Jerusalem to Rome bespoke some very poor time management. 

To an angel, however--

He’d enjoyed his meandering path as it veered slightly north and west, following the Mediterranean coastline--broadly speaking. He’d wandered through every library and bazaar from Assyria to Anatolia, sampled delicacies and discussions from town square to temple. The humans were loud, and chaotic, and filthy, and  _ brilliant _ \--he felt he’d need another ten years  _ at least  _ to really soak in all the terrible wonders he’d seen since leaving Jerusalem. To an angel, eight years is  _ nothing _ . 

After four thousand years of his sandals wearing grooves into the roads that cut through the deserts from Cairo to Calvary--one could say that eight years to reach Rome looked rather like  _ running away _ . 

Aziraphale stared at the simple wooden board on the table before him, rolling the smooth white stone between his fingers while he popped an olive into his mouth with his free hand. It wasn’t a game meant for only one player, of course--which made it all the more exciting. A  _ challenge _ . One that didn’t involve orders from Heaven, or keeping humanity on the right track towards Goodness, or thwarting--

“What’ve you got?”

His hand hovered above the board, white stone temporarily diverted from certain victory as the familiar voice carried across the  _ taverna _ . Aziraphale chewed the inside of his cheek in indecision. He couldn’t see the bar from his seat; if he wanted to confirm his suspicions, he would have to get up from his table. 

_ Suspicions confirmed _ . His hair was shorter than it had been the last time the angel had seen him. The silver laurel wrapped around the cropped auburn curls, gleaming above the mismatched tangle of black robes draping his long frame. 

“Give me a jug of whatever you think’s drinkable.”

_ Crowley.  _ And he looked-- _ miserable _ . 

It would be ridiculous to approach, Aziraphale scolded himself. Not to mention dangerous. Ridiculous to feel  _ sympathy,  _ of all things--

“Crawl-- _ Crowley,”  _ he said brightly, grinning as the demon turned. “Fancy running into  _ you _ , in  _ here! _ ”

Crowley blinked behind a tiny pair of smoke-black glasses, taking in the angel with a glance. Aziraphale claimed the empty seat beside him, nodding at the serving girl to pour a second cup. “Still a demon, then?”

“What sort of stupid question is that?” Crowley snapped. His dark brows slammed together in a scowl. “Still a dem--what else am I gonna be, an aardvaark?”

_ Ridiculous _ , he thought, chastened.  _ Ridiculous angel.  _ “ _ Salutaria, _ ” he offered, more meekly than he meant to. Crowley grudgingly tapped his cup to his, hunching over the bar as soon as it was polite to do so. 

He could leave it at that, Aziraphale knew. He  _ should  _ leave it at that. Meeting twice in a decade was pushing it, and Crowley very clearly was in no mood for conversation. Waste of time to stay, really--

\--to want to soothe, to calm, as long ago the demon had done for him--

“In Rome long?” he asked, hiding his reddening cheeks in his cup. 

“Nipped in for a quick temptation,” Crowley answered flatly. His gaze flicked sideways, and one or two of the deep furrows in his brow reluctantly softened. “You?”

“I thought I’d try Petronius’s new restaurant,” Aziraphale confessed. “I hear he does  _ remarkable  _ things to oysters.”

_ I’m here on no one’s business but my own _ , was what he wanted to say. What he  _ couldn’t  _ way. What a mad,  _ ridiculous  _ thing to want to say--

Crowley’s standoffish hunch relaxed--though one would have needed near-miraculous eyesight to notice. “I’ve never eaten an oyster,” he said, nonchalant enough to convince not even the human serving girl behind the bar. 

Aziraphale felt his heart bounce giddily in his chest with delight. Humans had named  _ delight  _ rather recently and it felt adequate to describe the fluttery tingle that traveled from his scalp to his toes. “Oh let me tempt you to--oh,” he started, and then stammered into silence as Crowley turned toward him incredulously. “Oh no that’s--that’s  _ your  _ job, isn’t it,” he subsided, swaying from side to side in embarrassment.  _ Ridiculous angel!  _ he berated himself. 

The corners of Crowley’s mouth twitched back and forth with amusement as he continued to stare at him. Quite coolly, he finished his jug of house brown and left a few extra coins on the bar. “So how far is this  _ Petronius  _ of yours, angel?” he asked. 

What an odd thing, Aziraphale mused as he happily led the way through the warm cobblestone streets. What an odd thing  _ indeed _ , to invite a demon to lunch on oysters and a crisp white wine. To feel that shiver of  _ delight  _ in sharing. In soothing. In the cracking open of Crowley’s bad mood and pouring in something-- _ else _ .

“It’s this Caligula bloke,” Crowley burst out, somewhere in the middle of their second bottle. “Meant to be temptin’ him, right? Only he’s the maddest, most  _ ridiculous  _ human I’ve ever met! D’you know he made his  _ horse  _ a Senator? Totally normal horse! Nothin’ interestin’ about it, hard on the buttocks as any other blessed horse! And here’s Hastur breathin’ down my neck about excessive orgies and I can’t exactly tell him ‘not me, mate, that one’s all Little Boots!’ And then Ligur, the twisted sod he is, has the  _ nerve  _ to suggest I’m not  _ applying myself _ \--”

Aziraphale let him rant--it seemed to be doing him some good. Not Good, Aziraphale hastened to reassure himself. Just… oysters and wine, and perhaps a little company. 

“Hang on, there’s something funny in this one--” Crowley delicately spat out the rounded stone that had tipped into his mouth with the oyster’s meat. “What the heaven is this?”

“Oh, you’ve found a pearl!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “They’re really quite rare, you know. A bit of sand gets into the oyster, you see--beastly irritating for the poor thing. So it covers it up with a sort of, um--stuff. It shines, see? Humans like to make necklaces and such from them.”

The demon rolled it between his fingers, admiring the warm gleam of it as it caught the light. “You keep it,” he said, his tone dismissive but his movements gentle as he offered the pearl. “Souvenir.” 

_ Delight  _ warmed as Aziraphale carefully took the pearl from Crowley’s fingers and dropped it into a pocket he miracled open and shut again.  _ Ridiculous _ , he thought, warm with wine as his eyes followed the erratic movements of Crowley’s hands.

But even a ridiculous angel needs to pause for breath, now and then. 


	5. C'est Moi, C'est Moi, 'Tis I!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand I'm back! A big thank you to everyone who's left kudos and bookmarked this - I sincerely hope this doesn't disappoint.

**_537 AD_ **

_It’s nearly five centuries later. It’s good deeds and damp places, it’s the weight of silvery armor. It’s mingled fear and pleasure to see a familiar face. It’s a suggestion. It’s his first temptation, made all the more terrifying because of how much, for just a moment, it makes perfect sense._

 

“I, Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round,” he called as he made his way through the thick fog, “am here to speak with the Black Knight!”

He loved Camelot, he reflected as he made his way across the moor. He loved the fellowship of equals, the call to the table where he sat no lower - and no higher - than anyone else. He loved the _human-ness_ of it. Whether at mealtime or in wartime, he didn’t have to be _alone_ . He wasn’t _above_ anyone - 

He wasn’t being entirely truthful, either. 

“You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one,” boomed a voice across the clearing. “But you have found only your death.”

Even in the echo of the Black Knight’s helmet he thought he detected a familiar serpentine drawl. He frowned, twin specters of suspicion and anticipation sitting on either shoulder. “Is that you under there, Crawly?”

“ _Crowley_ ,” the demon corrected him indignantly. He lifted his visor and sure enough, the familiar slit-gold eyes glared back at him. 

Aziraphale’s unnecessary heart bounced in his chest. The delight was familiar. But there was something new, something warm and gleaming like the pearl he still carried in his pocket, that curled through him and lingered long after his heart fell still. There was quite a bit of new poetry being written, all of it attempting to put a name to this ribbon of warmth that wrapped him up and _squeezed_. 

The truth was, it was deuced _lonely_ being an angel. Being the only supernatural creature for hundreds of miles, in fact. Oh, it wasn’t as if he’d denied it outright. It wasn’t as if he’d said, “No, of course I’m not an angel.” It wasn’t as if he’d _lied_. 

But no one had _asked_ if he _was_ an angel, either. 

Of course he’d tell the truth, if _asked_. But even that Merlin chappie hadn’t been so bold as to try. No one had called across the roast boar, “Say, Sir Aziraphale, might you be an angel of the Lord?”

It was all quite tidy, really. His every intention of telling the truth was cancelled out by his never having to. It cancelled out quite nicely. 

_And speaking of cancelling each other out…_

“Be a lot easier if we both just stayed home,” Crowley was saying, his voice quiet and persuasive. 

“My dear fellow!” Aziraphale protested. “They’d - well, they’d check!”

He rolled his eyes. “Our head offices don’t care who does what,” he insisted. “As long as we’re shown to be doing something…”

The easiest way to stop an idea from making sense, Aziraphale found, was simply to stop listening. “We’re not having this conversation,” he snapped. “Not another word!”

Later, he paced his chamber within Camelot’s walls, his thoughts churning with outrage. It was one thing to never answer a question humans never thought to ask, he reflected in agitation. But Heaven - Heaven _would_ ask. And Aziraphale _would_ tell the truth. 

And Crowley… Crowley _would_ be destroyed, once word reached Hell. 

An icy hand tore through the layers of warm ribbon that had coiled around his ribs. The truth was, it _was_ lonely being an angel. It was lonely, watching humans be born, grow up, grow old, and die, and see new humans take their place before he’d quite gotten used to the other ones being gone. It was lonely, watching buildings crumble and new ones be erected in the same places. 

Aziraphale drew the pearl out of his pocket and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. It was warm, despite the damp and the chill. It was the only thing that was. It was 

_So_

_Bloody_

_Lonely,_ being and staying the same while everyone and everything around him _changed_. How would he stand it, if the one thing that had been the same for over four thousand years suddenly changed, too? 

He closed his fist around the little pearl and brought it to his lips, hunching over his lap in thought. Heaven would ask, surely. 

_Wouldn’t they?_

No one had asked yet if he was, in fact, an angel of the Lord Almighty, after all. It was a ludicrous question. 

It took him four hundred years to arrive at a question so patently ridiculous Heaven would never waste its time asking. Another hundred to work up the courage to seek Crowley out for a meeting, rather than trail after him, thwarting in his wake. Really, the dear creature was quite crafty when he set his mind to it - 

Seven hours and almost the entire winter’s store of the local lord’s mead to get to the point. And after all that, less than a minute to actually _say_ it. 

“Listen, Crowley - I’ve been thinking about what you said…”


End file.
